(Shyness is Nice) Just Ask Me
by dansunedisco
Summary: Sterek AU. The one where Derek wowed the crowd at the talent show, pissed off the lacrosse team, and got his man.


**Note:** Super awkward!Derek, ahoy! Also: let's pretend lacrosse and basketball season are totally at the same time, okay?

* * *

**(Shyness is Nice) Just Ask Me**

Derek had it on good authority that Stiles loved The Smiths, and had a dedicated playlist to 80s lo-fi on Spotify. He liked romance, though he was adamant he did not, but always wore a wistful look on his face during prom season. He drove a rusted old Jeep, maintained a 4.2 GPA, was best friends with Scott Mccall (student body vice-president, co-captain of the lacrosse team, and all around _great dude_), had dated Lydia Martin _and _Danny Mahealani both (in middle school, but it counted), and had finally made first line junior year. He was deeply sarcastic, tending towards rude, but always went to bat for his friends. Word on the street was that he'd applied and been accepted early admission to Stanford, MIT, and UCLA, too.

And, as if he couldn't get any more perfect, he also happened to be hot like burning, and had been the primary star of Derek's Gay Awakening of sophomore year.

Derek's only problem was that Stiles Stilinski didn't know _Derek S. Hale _existed.

Everything Derek knew about Stiles he knew because he was a creepy creeper who creeped—a fact Laura and Cora never let him live down once they'd discovered just how far down the rabbit hole went.

Sometimes Derek lingered in the locker room after basketball practice (not to _watch _Stiles change for lacrosse or anything, seriously, he wasn't a _perv, _God!), but most of what he knew, he'd siphoned off Facebook and overheard cafeteria conversations. The last interaction he and Stiles had shared was when he'd apologized for bumping into the guy (last year) and he'd mostly just grunted.

It was the most pathetic thing, ever, according to his sisters. Even Uncle Peter joined in the mocking when he didn't have anything better to do. And Derek was inclined to agree with them.

It was just _hard _being Derek. He knew he was attractive, objectively. His face was okay, and he had good qualities, sometimes. He was smart, received good grades, and had played varsity basketball since his sophomore year (which made him "not a complete loser." _Thanks, Cora_). He played the violin, too, but he tried to keep that fact to himself.

His best friend, Erica, was always telling him he could pull. That people were interested in him, wanted to date him. But Derek knew the moment he opened his mouth to speak they'd run the other way. He didn't how to express himself without making it weird, so he mostly didn't say much. Even still, his vow of sort-of-silence backfired because, as it turned out, his resting face happened to be epically bitchy, which was something people apparently found attractive. ("It's the eyebrows," was Erica's final verdict.)

In a way, he knew his crush on Stiles was so strong because he recognized just how out of his league Stiles was, and, therefore, would never expect to put himself out there and face rejection. It was a fantastic excuse to avoid any and all dating attempts, especially after the horrifying Kate Argent incident of last summer.

But the time for pining from afar was over. The countdown for when he and Stiles would split ways had been going on for years, and what did he have to lose, anyway? He wanted to take the leap. But mostly he didn't want to be _that guy_—the guy who went to his high school reunion, got wasted on crap beer, and confessed to someone who probably didn't recognize them that they'd harbored major, DEFCON 1 crush-feelings for them.

So when he saw the talent show posters go up before homecoming, he thought, _Why not? _Stiles seemed to like grand gestures (if his elaborate schemes were anything to go by), and what would be grander than a song dedicated to him in front of the entire school?

Derek could sing, he didn't get stage fright, and he knew Stiles would be in the crowd because he'd overheard him promising Scott he'd go last Wednesday. Before Derek could talk himself out of signing up, he scribbled his name down in the margin, along with Erica, Boyd, and Isaac's.

What could go wrong?

* * *

A lot, apparently.

"Are you fucking _insane_?"

"Erica, put the butter knife down."

He'd broken the news to his friends after school, thinking they would be overjoyed to see him pursing his sad, pathetic, long-standing crush. To say the news was badly taken was a major, major understatement. Boyd hadn't said much, but Derek saw the silent judgment in his eyes. Isaac and Erica, on the other hand, were rather more vocal with their disapproval.

Derek glared. "I said I was sorry."

Erica looked like she wanted to throw her chemistry textbook at his head. "You can't just sign people up for things without asking first. You are so socially stunted, I can't even deal right now."

"We don't play instruments," Isaac pointed out, and then hastened to clarify, "My French horn doesn't count."

Derek grumbled. "I have an instrumental recording, and I'll do the vocals. I just need you guys to… act."

"Act like your band," said Boyd, tone drier than the desert.

"Well, when you put it like _that_," Derek said darkly. He crossed his arms over his chest, willing his friends to cave with the force of his eyebrows. When they didn't budge, he ground out: "Rides in the Camaro for two months."

The trio immediately turned in amongst themselves, and Derek waited impatiently for the verdict.

"Your plans suck ass," said Erica.

"But we'll do it," Boyd and Isaac chorused together.

* * *

A week later, Derek found himself in the wings of the auditorium, waiting for his cue to set up his act. A serious bout of nausea had hit him not five minutes earlier, but he'd forgone lunch, so he figured he was in the clear. His friends, on the other hand—the ones he had to blackmail to join him in his endeavor to woo Stiles—were as cool as cucumbers.

He hated them.

"Are you _sure _you want to go through with this?" asked Boyd.

Derek nodded, because he did. He really did, okay?

The music for the act preceding theirs tapered off, replaced with rambunctious hooting and hollering from the crowd. Ms Blake waved them on. Derek busied himself with raising the microphone stand. Isaac and Erica came onstage with their bass and guitar, respectively, while Boyd wheeled in his drum set. A strange murmur went through the audience, no doubt wondering what the hell _Derek Hale _was doing at the school's talent show.

Derek's stomach clench together, tighter than ever, but the stage lights made it impossible to see out into the crowd, which eased his nerves a little. He cleared his throat, and leaned into the microphone. It was now or never. "Um, this is for you, number 24 lacrosse," he said. "Go to homecoming with me? Please. Yeah."

Before he could get the audience's response, the four of them launched into song as they had rehearsed in the days before. Derek sang, focusing entirely on remembering the lyrics.

When the last bar of music faded away, he was sweating profusely, and his heart was hammering in his chest. But he was exhilarated, and, for the first time in a long time, grinning ear to ear.

The end of their performance was greeted with stunned silence, and then roaring, screaming applause. Derek was sure 99 percent of the students were clapping ironically ("ironically"), but he hoped the 1 percent he was trying to reach was impressed, or touched, or both.

And maybe wanted to go to homecoming with him.

* * *

They didn't win the talent show, which was fine, since that hadn't been Derek's goal in the first place. But Stiles hadn't come to find him afterwards, and Derek was positive he'd seen the back of a familiar red hoodie melt away into the crowd after his set. It was easy to conclude what Stiles' answer was from that alone.

Though Derek had thoroughly prepared himself for this outcome, it still sucked.

By the time he'd packed up his gear, drove his friends home, and made it through his front door, he was miserable. He trudged up the stairs, turned left instead of right, and kicked his way into Laura's bedroom. He flopped down face first onto her bed and moaned.

Laura poked him with her big toe. "Hi to you, too, Derek."

He rolled sideways and glared. "I did that stupid talent show, and it didn't work."

She blinked, and then burst into loud, snorting laughter. It took her at least two minutes to calm down enough to speak in full, clear sentences. "Oh my god. I can't believe this. You really did it!"

"I just said I did," he said, confused as to _why _she seemed so shocked. She'd been the one to plant the seed in the first place, told him again and again how there was no way Stiles wouldn't absolutely love it, and—_wait._ Derek narrowed his eyes. "_Laura_."

Laura wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye. "You are so, so awkward, little bro."

Derek jackknifed up, alarm bells blaring. "Laura. _Laura_, what did I just do?"

She titled her head, eyebrows drawn together. She was starting to look _regretful_, which was never, ever a good sign when it came to Derek's elder sister. "Well… most people _don't_like gaudy public spectacles. He's probably mortified."

"But you said he'd like it," he accused.

"I may or may not have been pulling your leg for my own sadistic amusement." She bit her lip. "You really like him, don't you?"

"Yes, I do, and you encouraged me to embarrass him in front of the school." He groaned, and flopped back down. He threw his arm across his eyes dramatically, to really drive the guilt home. "I'm smashing your 'best big sister' mug when I go downstairs next."

Laura crawled over to him, and shoved a pillow over his face. "You wouldn't dare!"

* * *

The entire lacrosse team was waiting for him by the bike racks the next day at school. They all looked murderous, though the intimidation factor was dulled somewhat by the puff painted, be-glittered t-shirts they wore.

Derek expected to get jumped, but what happened next was much, much worse.

Scott Mccall stepped up to him. "What you did yesterday was a really shitty thing to do, dude."

Jackson Whittemore stepped up next. "No one—_no one—_makes fun of Bilinski like that, except me."

"I hope it made you feel really good to do that," Danny said.

One by one, every member of the lacrosse team said their piece, laid their two cents down, and verbally tore Derek in two. He took the deserved abuse in silence, and then went about his business, assuming the worst had passed.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

Everywhere he went, people stared, whispered, or outright talked about him while he passed by. Even the teachers looked at him strangely, like he'd been swapped with a pod person.

By the time lunch rolled around, Derek wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out.

("If the school was Twitter, we would be trending," Erica had crowed, slamming her lunch tray down at their usual table in the corner. "My time has finally come, bitches.")

Attention had never been Derek's drug of choice, but his performance had shot his name straight into the stratosphere. He should have known listening to Laura was a bad idea.

Now the entire lacrosse team hated him, the nicest guy in school thought he was a jerk, the object of his awkward affection wanted nothing to do with him, and, worst of all, he was _popular_.

* * *

Derek jogged to the locker room. He was going to be late. Harris had held him back fifteen minutes for no reason, though he knew Derek had to hustle to get to basketball practice on time.

He skidded through the door, tossed his backpack on the bench, and was promptly grabbed by the shoulder and shoved up against a locker.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" said Stiles, fingers digging none too gently into Derek's shoulder. He looked furious, his other hand clenched into a fist, like he was waiting for Derek to speak his piece before he decked him.

There was a lot wrong with him, he wanted to say. He was awkward, socially inept, and emotionally constipated, but all he'd wanted was to get Stiles' attention—he just hadn't known how, and had made the mistake of asking a no good enabler for ideas.

"Just hit me," he grumbled instead. "Get it over with."

Stiles scowled. "Explanation first. Punching later. I want to know what's going on in that psycho brain of yours."

Derek gritted his teeth. "I'm sorry I embarrassed you."

"Yeah, you should be. You're lucky Scott was sitting next to me at the show, because I was ready to parkour my ass on stage and kick yours," said Stiles. "Making fun of me in front of the entire school was a total dick move."

Derek frowned. "I don't see how me asking you to homecoming was making fun of you."

Stiles reared back. "Seriously? That was, like, your pièce de résistance! Everyone, absolutely _everyone _knows how much you hate me, okay?"

Derek gaped. "How much I _hate you_?"

"Not too hard to infer when you're glaring at me like a freakin' serial killer every damn day."

"That's just my face," said Derek, slightly offended. "And I—I don't _hate _you. I've _liked _you since sophomore year. You're the reason I knew I was gay."

The realization that his intentions had been completely misconstrued dawned on him with a jolt. It looked as if Stiles had come to the same conclusion, too, because he was staring at Derek like his entire world view had been tipped on its axis.

Stiles stepped out of Derek's personal bubble and wiggled his fingers. "You're serious. Like, you were really trying to be—romantic or something. You were trying to ask me to homecoming."

He nodded.

"You, Derek Hale, like me. Romantically."

He nodded again.

"Huh. Was not expecting that." Stiles rubbed the side of his neck. "You're late for practice."

Derek looked at the clock above the door. He was, in fact, very, very late.

"You should skip it, maybe," said Stiles, slowly, like he wasn't even sure what was coming out of his own mouth. "With me."

Derek's stomach did a weird little flip. If he went to practice now, he knew he'd be punished for his tardiness. If he didn't go at all, he'd be punished even more harshly tomorrow. But Stiles wanted him to skip it. How could he say no?

He smiled. "Okay."

* * *

He and Stiles didn't fall madly in love in the locker room that day, but they did go to the Five Guys in the downtown strip mall to hang out, where Stiles agreed to go to homecoming with him—as friends.

("I can't go from thinking you're planning my murder to—something else, in a day," Stiles had explained between handfuls of fries. "But I'll be your date, sure. It's kinda like you pulled off a scene in a John Hughes movie. How can I not give you props for that?"

"Friends, then," he'd said. "We can go as friends.")

But now they were swaying together under the strobe lights, and pretending he wasn't completely infatuated was near impossible. Had been hard to pretend for the past several weeks, actually.

He was wearing a tux with a pin-on boutonniere Stiles had affixed to the lapel of his jacket, for god's sake. His mother had made him stand with Stiles at the bottom of the stairs so she could take photos while his father videotaped, and he'd smiled the entire time.

Things he swore he'd never do, he did for Stiles. They went to the old movie theater on the weekends with Stile's friends (and Derek's, too), and sometimes hung out after school. He talked to more people than just Isaac, Boyd, and Erica. He went to parties, texted, signed up for snapchat, and did his homework on the bleachers during lacrosse practice when he didn't have his own practice to go to. He'd even told Stiles that he played the violin.

Stiles frowned. "You look like grumpy cat."

Derek knew that reference now, thanks to Stiles' influence. "Just thinking."

"What about?"

"You," he admitted.

Stiles wrinkled his nose. "Alright, creeper, keep creepin' on."

Derek rolled his eyes, and pulled Stiles closer. Stiles relaxed into his arms with a sigh, and looped his arms over his shoulders. The song switched to a thumping bass line, but they stayed dancing slow.

* * *

Stiles dragged him out of the gym five minutes till midnight.

"I want Denny's," he declared.

Derek shot him a look. "That's one town over. Can't you settle for iHop?"

"No," said Stiles. "I already told Scott we were going to Denny's, so."

"Fine," he sighed, resigned. Stiles wouldn't shut up if he didn't get his way.

"Wait—before we go..." Stiles inched forward into Derek's personal space.

For a second, Derek was alarmed. Did he have something on his face? Had he crushed his boutonniere?

Then Stiles kissed him.

Derek closed his eyes, and lifted his hands up to cup Stiles' jaw. The kiss was sweet, and proper, but it made him feel warm all over, made his knees feel weak. He'd been kissed before—more than just a simple press of lips to lips—but none of them had made him feel as good as he did now.

Stiles broke away, breathing a little heavier than before. "I've been meaning to do that for weeks."

Derek exhaled slowly. "Why didn't you?"

"You said we'd go as friends, and—friends don't really do that."

_Friends_, Derek thought. He'd never wanted to be _just_ friends in the first place, but he'd dropped the f-word at Five Guys without considering that Stiles could've wanted to try for more—but now. Now, Stiles had kissed him, and looked like he wanted to kiss him a hundred times over.

"I don't want to be friends."

"Thank God. Neither do I." Stiles pulled him in for another kiss. "You realize we've been dating this entire time, right? Very, very chaste, innocent dating. Which we should rectify immediately."

"I thought you wanted Denny's."

Stiles kissed him again. "This is quite possibly the cheesiest thing I've said to date, but: I want you more."

* * *

Derek drove. Stiles fiddled with the preset radio stations. He skipped around, button mashing every few seconds, flicking through the stations fast enough to give Derek a headache. He made a play to slap Stiles' hands away.

"Quit that," Stiles griped. "I'm trying to find our song."

Derek narrowed his eyes. "Our song?"

"Yeah, our song." Stiles waggled his eyebrows.

"My talent show confessional?" he said, and then scoffed. It had been more than a year since, and Stiles still hadn't let him live that moment down. Probably never would, if he had his way. "No way that's playing tonight."

"Wanna bet?"

"Sure."

Stiles cackled, and whipped out his phone.

Derek groaned. "That's cheating."

"Still winning, though."

Derek rolled his eyes. He didn't have the energy to argue semantics on a good day, and they'd been on the road back to Beacon Hills for hours now. Instead, he settled into his seat and offered his hand, palm up. Stiles took it with a grin.

* * *

**Notes:**

Re: the song Derek sings. I intentionally didn't insert the song in the story, but it's meant it to be Ask by The Smiths. It's also where I got the title from.

Not entirely sure where this came from, but I love high school AUs, and Derek being an awkward, weird teenager. I hope you liked it, too?


End file.
